Father Brown and the Eleven Dwarfs
by Old Toad
Summary: Father Brown's people skills are needed to help some angry dwarfs in denial.


_This is the BBC TV Father Brown, set in the early 1950's. This Father Brown is a Roman Catholic priest in the parish of Kembleford._

Sid brought the gleaming Rolls to a silent halt a little short of the presbytery. He and Lady Felicia stared at the scene in front of them. Outside the front of the building was a large handcart, empty apart from a small boy scout and a large pile of ropes. However, it was the activity actually in the doorway of the presbytery which held their attention. Several scouts of various sizes appeared to be engaged in a fruitless struggle with a very large piece of furniture wedged in the doorway. Whether they were trying to get it in or out, the arrivals could not tell.

"Sid, could you go and sort them out? I will find Mrs McCarthy and discover what this is all about."

Lady Felicia came in through the open kitchen door to find Mrs McCarthy in a heated argument with a tubby, balding man in scout's uniform, a scoutmaster she did not know. The parish secretary was 'not happy at all' with the damage which the scouts had inflicted on the presbytery as they had manhandled an old wardrobe out of its room and down the stairs. However, apart from a thick trail of dust, 'which was hardly the fault of the boys' as the scoutmaster put it, the only real damage was a broken baluster on the stairs and some scuffs to the wallpaper.

"Mrs McCarthy," said the scoutmaster, "When I agreed to take that old wardrobe off your hands, you agreed that we would break it up in place and carry the pieces down afterwards."

"Well, yes," she countered, "But that was before we saw the extent of the woodworm. You said yourself that it was riddled. We cannot have woodworm scattered throughout the building."

"Could I suggest," interrupted Felicia, "that you first finish the job of getting that wardrobe out and on to your cart. Right now, your young charges seem to have got it jammed."

The man muttered under his breath and shot off to see what was going wrong. Felicia gave Mrs McCarthy a questioning look.

"I heard," Mrs McCarthy said, "that the local scouts were looking for wood for the village bonfire on the 5th of November. They wanted to have a really big blaze this year – some competition or other. Well, I thought of that big, old wardrobe; we knew there was some worm – we just didn't realise how much."

Sid came in to announce that the scouts had now got the wardrobe onto the cart 'with hardly any damage' and were now tying it down. "I have to move the motor," he said, "I'll be back in a tick."

Mrs McCarthy bustled after him to see what his idea of 'hardly any damage' might be. Lady Felicia sighed and followed after at her own pace. She managed to broker a peace between Scouts and Church: the scouts would repair the splintered banister, and the scuffs and scrapes to the wallpaper and paintwork would be overlooked.

The two ladies sat down to a calming cup of tea in the kitchen and were soon joined by Sid.

"Well, that settles it," Mrs McCarthy was saying. "I'll have to get a new wardrobe now." She sipped her tea. "A replacement is needed urgently – there's nowhere to put all the vestments. … It is gone now, Sid, the old one?"

"Yes, it's off to hell in a handcart – it's for the fire next week." He smirked at the disapproving look of his hostess, and took a long swig of tea.

"The trouble is," continued Mrs McCarthy, "where am I to get anything suitable? That wardrobe lasted a hundred years and the next one should too. This new stuff, Utility Furniture they call it, is quite unsuitable."

"Oh I do so agree," cooed Felicia. She raised her voice, "Do come and sit down Sid, you look so awkward stood there." He joined them at the little table and took a proffered biscuit. "Utility Furniture is out of the question, and any decent new piece will be way out of your price range. I know." She took a sip. "It will have to be second hand."

Mrs McCarthy considered this. "I was thinking the same. But an antique would be far too much, and I'm not buying from a junk shop – I could end up with something worse than the old one."

"How about an auction?" offered Sid. "Good stuff goes to the auction sales these days, and you could get a bargain."

"Or," said Lady Felicia, warming to the idea, "how about a clearance sale? Where some old house has its contents sold off, item by item. Things often go for an absolute song."

"Yes," said Mrs McCarthy, "but that could be weeks, months, away – or the other end of the country. I could hardly travel far in the hopes of a bargain. I'm far too busy here."

"No need," said Felicia. "As it happens, there is such a sale on tomorrow and only twenty or so miles from here. I was thinking of going myself – not to buy anything, but because it may be my last chance to look over the old house. … You're most welcome to come along. Sid and I can pick you up tomorrow morning. What do you say?"

"Well, I suppose I could. … But won't it be all antiques, suits of armour and pictures of men in wigs? Nothing, well, down to earth and ordinary?"

"All the really valuable stuff has already gone. This sale is for the rest: pots and pans in the kitchen, that sort of thing. You should find it interesting at least."

"Why not: Father Brown is away, and the parish accounts can wait one day. I'm not putting you to too much trouble, I hope?"

"Not at all. I'm at a bit of a loose end at the moment, or I wouldn't be here, scoffing your biscuits. … And very more-ish they are too."

Come the morrow, come the motor: Mrs McCarthy and Lady Felicia sat together in the back, while Sid, in full chauffeur's uniform, drove.

"I found out a bit more about this sale last night," said Felicia. "The old house – and parts of it are _very_ old – is going to be converted into a 'Country House Hotel.' So everything is to be moved out before the work begins. All the best stuff has either gone into storage or to the big London dealers. An awful lot of what is on sale today is the property of a previous owner."

"And does that include furniture?" asked Mrs McCarthy.

"Apparently. The old professor was a stickler for quality and owned some good pieces." She leant forward, "Sid, are we nearly there, it's been well over an hour?"

"We are coming into the village now, Lady Felicia. I'll have to stop and ask directions to the House."

"Very good, Sid, carry on."

Twenty minutes later Lady Felicia and Mrs McCarthy were part of a small party of dealers, potential bidders and nosy parkers congregated in the entrance hall of the old House, each with a mimeographed list of items running to five quarto pages.

"Right, ladies and gentlemen, lot number one on the hearth beside me: a set of wrought-iron fire tongs, fire irons, etc. believed to be 18th century. Do I hear five shillings to get us started?"

An hour later the auction had progressed from the hall, via a number of rooms, to the kitchen. "Lot 47, a set of copper jelly moulds, as seen. Two shillings anyone?"

An hour after that and Mrs McCarthy had secured a set of enamelled saucepans for twelve shillings the lot, and the auctioneer had taken them up to the bedrooms. There were several guest bedrooms, small and large, with beds and various items of furniture in most. In none of these was there a wardrobe which Mrs McCarthy considered suitable. She and Lady Felicia were beginning to wilt by the time the auctioneer consulted his notes and announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, two more lots in this wing and then the sale will break for lunch."

The first of those lots was a harp, which had a room to itself. A young lady had been sitting at the harp, tuning it; and she now played a short piece to demonstrate the quality of the instrument. She was warmly applauded. It was clear that this was the star item of the auction and bidding was sharp. Several bidders had come solely for this lot and bids rapidly climbed to over 300 pounds, with a final bid of 360 pounds.

After that, a lot of people left, and a much diminished party was led through the Library – a series of rooms with dusty, empty shelves – to a final room containing only a wardrobe.

"The last item this morning," announced the auctioneer. "A large wardrobe. Note the depth: there are two hanging rails, one behind the other. It is a very unusual for a piece of this size in being of apple wood. It was made by a local craftsman some time between the wars. Do I hear ten pounds for this unique item? … No? Five pounds then to get us started?"

Mrs McCarthy's hand went up, helped by Lady Felicia's upward shove on her elbow. There were no other bids.

Fifteen minutes later Mrs McCarthy had handed over six pounds thirteen shillings to the auctioneer's clerk, to include delivery of wardrobe and saucepans. The ladies walked back to the car where Sid was reading a newspaper. Sid found the way to the nearest town, and eventually the three of them took a late lunch together in a little café near the railway station.

"You should have come in with us, Sid," said Felicia between bites. "It's quite a sight, empty as it is – it's such a pity the National Trust are not having it."

"Old houses are not my thing," he replied. "But I did get to talk to a local while you were inside. Said her name was Betty. She used to work in the old house when the professor was there – dusting and such like. She told me quite a bit about it. Even during the war the professor had a housekeeper _and_ three servants, herself included. And for a while there was a family of four children, evacuees from London."

"With their mother?"

"No, they were on their own. It was just one summer, before they went back to school. Well, the boys anyway."

Three days later the wardrobe was delivered and after tea and scones in the kitchen the delivery men agreed to take the wardrobe up to the room and re-assemble it. By the time that Father Brown returned to Kembleford that evening the vestments were in place and the presbytery was returned to good order.

A few days after that, the priest was sitting in the kitchen, looking uncharacteristically perturbed, when Mrs McCarthy came in. "Penny for your thoughts, Father."

"Old Miss Gresham!"

"Father?"

"She is now convinced that her old house is haunted. She is insisting," he emphasised the last word, "insisting that I see the bishop and arrange a formal exorcism."

"She has seen ghosts, has she? Remember old Mrs Steel who reckoned she'd seen angels? A combination of gin, cataracts and wishful thinking that was!"

"I prefer to think she had seen the children rehearsing for the nativity play. Some of the mothers had made very large angel wings that year. In my experience the supernatural is very rare indeed, though I accept the possibility. Miss Gresham may have seen _something_ – but the spirits of the dead made visible to the living? I am deeply, deeply sceptical."

After evening service Father Brown hurried in, just as Mrs McCarthy was leaving. "Whatever is the matter Father? You look like the Devil himself is after you."

"I wouldn't go that far, but Miss Gresham is becoming impossible! She is actually chasing after me, demanding immediate action on her hauntings."

"Go and change, Father, she won't get past me."

"Thank you, Mrs McCarthy; I wouldn't want her to do something she would later regret."

He charged up the stairs, even as loud knocking was heard at the front door. As he changed into his everyday clericals he could hear Miss Gresham's shrill screeching. Then there were clumping feet on the stairs and Mrs McCarthy's indignant cries. He did not wish for a scene, and there was no lock on the door of this room. The wardrobe door was open; almost without thinking he stepped in and quietly pulled the door closed behind him.

He stood behind two chasubles and waited in the dark. He heard the bare floorboards creak under feet; feet descending the frayed stair carpet; muttered voices downstairs; and then the front door slamming shut. He realised that he was still holding his breath and took a deep gulp. Then, even while reaching out for the wardrobe door he stopped, thinking he could hear noises behind him, like people whispering.

Five minutes later, he was in the kitchen telling Mrs McCarthy about it. "It could be vermin behind the wainscoting I suppose, but it did sound awfully like people talking to each other, too far off to make out the words."

"Perhaps that's what it was, Father," said Mrs McCarthy, preparing for the second time to leave the presbytery. "Either that, or Miss Gresham's ghosts have moved in."

He jumped to his feet, muttering 'I am slow' to himself and started looking high and low in the kitchen cupboards. "Mrs McCarthy, do we have a torch?"

Looking smug, she left the room and returned seconds later brandishing a large electric torch. "Here you are, Father. I put new batteries in only last week."

"Thank you, Mrs McCarthy, I think I have an explanation for those voices in the wardrobe."

"And that would be?"

"A radio."

The Father hurried upstairs to the wardrobe. He opened its door and peered in using his torch. It seemed very dark in there. He knelt down and inched his way into the wardrobe, on his knees, shining the torch ahead of him. The torch was working: he could see his hand when he held it in front of the beam, but it lit up nothing else, not even the wood he was kneeling on. Except, was it wood? It felt softer, some thick, dark fabric perhaps? He started to back out and his heels came up against something hard. He turned around with some difficulty, and found himself up against a shut door.

There was no handle, and it would not open, even when he put his shoulder to it. He tried shouting for Mrs McCarthy, but there was no reply. He sat down, leaning against the door, feet splayed out in front of him.

"That's enough!" said a gruff voice. "The shouting was bad enough, but you keep your feet to yourself." Father Brown shone his torch in the direction of the voice and lit up a stern, bearded face. "And put away that infernal light, are you trying to blind us all?"

It was an automatic reaction for Father Brown to switch off the torch with a quiet "sorry." He closed his eyes and tried to pull back his feet a little. His heart raced as he forced himself to remain calm. He was wrong about the radio, and there was a bearded dwarf in his wardrobe! Other voices started to squabble with the first, arguing about the stranger who had arrived amongst them. That was him: there were dwarfs in his wardrobe arguing with each other about him! Except, was he still in the wardrobe? What he had briefly seen in the torch light seemed larger, a shed perhaps? And there was no sign of any clothing hanging there.

Eyes tightly shut and silent, he tried to think through what could explain it: someone was playing a strange practical joke – somehow; or he was hallucinating, drugged, delirious or insane; or he was seeing ghosts, Miss Gresham's perhaps; or some other supernatural occurrence; or – what had triggered this thought? – it was an 'alien abduction'; or perhaps he had died and this was purgatory – or worse?

Of course, the answer was obvious: he was asleep and having a nightmare! He soon realised that that was not the case: it might be a nightmare, but it was no dream. At least he was not alone; Sartre may have written that 'Hell is other people', but Father Brown knew otherwise.

"Could somebody tell be where we are, what is happening?" he asked.

"Well, that makes a change," said a voice. "Someone who doesn't think they know better than we do."

Gradually, he teased their story out of them. There were eleven of them; their fellow Dwarfs were probably all dead. There were details he found difficult to understand, like talking animals, but the outline was clear: there had been a battle, fought with spears, swords and arrows; they had been taken alive and thrust into this wooden hut or stable; they expected to be killed, probably by the hut being set ablaze.

"If I may say so, you seem remarkable calm about it – death at the hands of these Calormenes. You are not tied up are you? What is preventing escape?"

"We stick together," said one. "We are surrounded by enemies, so there is no escape. Anyway, there is no way out of this stable but that door, and it is bolted on the outside."

Father Brown peered through a crack in the door. "I can see nothing out there; it seems pitch black night with no fires. Can we be quiet for a moment and listen?"

Gratifyingly, everyone did remain silent. Though they listened for some while, they could hear only what they thought must be wind in the trees. "There doesn't seem to be anybody out there," whispered the Father. "How long have you been here?"

Much to his surprise, they disagreed with each other and squabbled vehemently. Opinion varied from minutes ("twenty minutes at the most" declared one) to "two days easily". But eventually they agreed that they did not know.

"I am going to use my torch," said Father Brown. "I will try not to shine it in your eyes, but it can only help to know exactly what we have here." He did not wait for their approval and shone its light upwards. It was quickly clear that he was in a smallish wooden hut with a thatched roof, no windows and only the one door. Then he looked lower down; there was a circle of little bearded men sitting around on the floor among straw, hay and muck. He counted eleven.

"Please put me right," said the Father, diffidently. "Somebody said something about others: 'nuisance children and a King' wasn't it? They are not here now."

"Well they must have gone out the way you came in," said one of them crossly. "How did you get in, anyway?"

"I, err, I heard your voices in my house, so I opened a door and crawled on my hands and knees and … here I am."

"Ho, ho," said one, mirthlessly, "that is the tallest tale yet."

"Yes," said another, "but he _is_ here, and he's our best chance of getting out of this hole."

"Okay, Man," said the first. "What's your plan; how do we get out of here?"

"We get out together," said Father Brown, "by working together. All right?"

There were nods all round; there seemed to be just enough light now to see each other, even though Father Brown had switched off the torch. (He suspected that Mrs McCarthy had bought cheap batteries which would not last.)

He had them go through their things to see what they had of use. This turned up a little food and drink ('marching rations'), three knives with long, wicked-looking blades, several tinderboxes, one small hatchet and two small spades.

"With these," said Griffle, their leader, "we could force open the door; cut through a wall; make an opening in the thatch; or even dig out under the walls. What's it to be?"

"Or we could try and burn our way out," said one, "and save the Calormenes the trouble!" He was rounded on by the others who were now keen to get out of 'this smelly, dark hole.'

They agreed that the door was probably being watched, so their first attempt was to cut through the far wall with the hatchet. One dwarf worked with it while the others sang songs and banged things together to cover the noise of chopping. This raised their spirits considerably, but after much hacking little or no progress had been made in cutting even a spy hole in the hut wall, even though it seemed to be made of thin planks. Other dwarfs tried and had no better success.

Undaunted, they resolved for one group to try digging under the wall, for there was only an earth floor, while others would try cutting through the thatch. One stood on Father Brown's shoulders to reach the thatch and hacked away. Soon he was standing in a thick circle of straw, which was in his hair and all over his clothes. The diggers gave up first; it was hard work, and even after they had gone down a good two feet the wood was still there. The piles of loose straw from the thatch continued to mount until it was up to the good Father's knees, while the thatch above looked unchanged.

"We are getting nowhere," announced Griffle, calling a halt. "And I have been looking at this door, only it isn't a door, it's just more wall: no door, no latch, no hinges, no doorframe, nothing!"

"It isn't natural!" said another Dwarf, and there was universal agreement.

"Well, what do you say, Man?" said Griffle, frowning up at Father Brown, who was massaging his bruised shoulders.

"I say that this Stable, as you call it, is quite supernatural. How could I have arrived here by natural means? And I've been puzzling about the light."

"What do you mean?"

"When I first got here it was pitch black, but it has steadily got brighter and we can now see perfectly clearly without my torch. Well, where is this light coming from?"

There was much puzzlement and scratching of heads and beards at this point; they had accepted the light without thinking, being too busy trying to escape.

"And," continued Father Brown quietly, as soon as he had their attention again, "when I first arrived it really did stink like a stable. What was in here before, horses? Now it almost smells of roses."

"I noticed that," cried one, "and this hay and straw – and our clothes – are a lot less mucky than they were."

"Quiet, lads!" commanded Griffle. "The Man has asked the big question, it seems to me. What was in here before? Whoever or whatever it was is the reason _we_ are here now. Isn't that so?"

This took a while for all of them to think through and understand, but most of them agreed with him eventually.

Father Brown sat down in the straw, making himself as comfortable as he could. "Take your time and tell me all about it."

So Griffle, supported by the others from time to time, told Father Brown about Narnia and Aslan, about the Ape and the Aslan in the Stable, about the Calormenes and Aslan ordering them to work in the mines of Calormen; and how it ended in the battle around the Stable. Griffle did not mention the fate of the Talking Horses – he now regretted what had been done in the heat of battle. Father Brown listened to the whole story; then he asked them more about Aslan and why they had followed his commands.

He considered what he had learnt; it was a lot to take in. "Loss of faith can be hard, and in your case it was very sudden. You must be very angry."

"We are, aren't we lads: the way we have been lied to by everyone."

"Angry with yourselves."

"What d'you mean 'angry with yourselves' – we've done nothing."

"You were taken in by the false Aslan – you accepted things that you knew were wrong, quite the opposite of the Aslan you loved. When you were shown how you had been duped you were angry with those who exposed the fraud, but mostly you were angry with yourselves for falling for tricks and lies. So now you're punishing yourselves."

"That's absurd," shouted Griffle, and the other Dwarfs loudly agreed with him. "We've learnt not to accept the deceits of others and that is it!"

Father Brown waited for them to quieten down and then calmly continued. "All your lives you believed in Alsan, loved him, gladly accepted His word. It was because of that that you fell for the Ape's lies so easily. You so firmly believed in Aslan that you even allowed yourselves to be marched off to be slaves. There is no lie more powerful than one built on a truth. Do not be too hasty to dismiss the reality of Aslan because you have seen a mockery of Him."

While around them the other Dwarfs began arguing with each other, Griffle continued to defend his absolute scepticism. "I suppose next you are going to tell us that, like those other, arrogant people, you too have come from some other world, but have met this magic lion. You wonder why I am angry. That child - 'queen' they called her! - had the cheek to call us 'you poor stupid Dwarfs'."

Father Brown blinked rapidly behind his glasses. "Oh dear," he said, very quietly. "No one ever likes being called 'stupid', do they? Nor do the angry accept pity: for it does sound to me that she was expressing genuine concern for your plight."

"' _Concern_ ': we can do without that thank you!"

"Can you? You were in a very dark place then, and your – our – position is not much better now."

One of the other Dwarfs joined the argument: "What about you, Man, do you claim to be from a different world? Have you seen the Lion?"

"I think I must be from _another_ world, for I had never heard of 'Narnia' before, but I don't think it so very _different_. The name of Aslan is not known to me, but my world too has its Lord. I have never met Him, nor do I expect to in life, but I have faith in Him and I follow His word as best I can. I am his humble servant."

This speech impressed the Dwarfs, but not all were easily persuaded. Griffle asked with some sarcasm, "You are right: we are in a hole. So what is your advice, how do we get out of here?"

"Shed your anger and examine your hearts."

What? That will free us will it?"

"From this supernatural Stable? I do not know. But anger clouds judgement; free from bitterness and pessimism you will be better prepared for whatever may come."

The Dwarfs withdrew to the far end of the hut and continued to argue with each other; some were having second thoughts and now thought their rejection of Aslan to be overhasty.

Father Brown closed his eyes and tried to relax, but his mind was in ferment: why was he here? Was it to help these little people or for his own instruction? Perhaps both, but he did not doubt that a Higher Power was behind it. Had he said the right things? He had plenty of experience with men and women, but was Dwarf psychology the same?

One of the Dwarfs came and sat next to him. "I believe in Aslan," he said, "I feel silly to have been fooled by a donkey dressed as a lion."

Father Brown nodded, "To err is human, and dwarfish too I think."

"Father," asked the Dwarf, "is there an argument that would help persuade the others, for we all accepted Aslan once?"

"Well, belief is ultimately a matter of faith, and your faith has been severely challenged. … However, you do all believe that this Stable is supernatural - magical if you prefer. If you accept that, then why not Lord Aslan? I'm sorry, that does sound feeble."

"No, it makes sense, thank you."

After more discussion among the Dwarfs, Griffle came to consult Father Brown. "Man, do you think that Aslan exists and has confined us here to punish us?"

"That is a possibility, but then why am I here? Not to increase your punishment, I hope." He managed a smile. "My guess is that this is a sort of waiting room, a place where you can reflect on your actions and beliefs. A last chance to decide whether to accept or reject Aslan as your Lord."

"If you are right and we turn back to Aslan in our hearts, then …"

"By the way you talk you already have. And if that is so then the waiting should be over. Let us look again for the way out." Father Brown struggled to his feet. "Well, well, it seems I have been leaning against the door all the time; there is even a doorknob. Shall I try it or will you?"

"Please Father Brown, you go first."

Father Brown stared at the doorknob; he took a deep breath; he grasped the knob; he tried it and it turned; he pulled and nothing happened; he pushed and the rickety stable door opened with a creak. Man and Dwarf looked out; it was a bright day, with a light breeze ruffling the grass and stirring the leaves on the trees. Nobody was in sight.

There was a whoop from the other Dwarfs and they scrambled to their feet and charged for the door. "Steady, my lads," cried Griffle, hold up his hand. "Father Brown has done this for us, and he should have the honour of going first."

"No, no, please," said the Father modestly. "This is your world, after you." So the Dwarfs marched out in good order and Father Brown followed, closing the door behind him. It was good to be in the open air after the confines of the hut. The view was magnificent, bright and colourful, doubly so after the dimness of the Stable. Father Brown beamed, impressed by the scenery. "This is your world, Narnia?" he asked. "It's beautiful."

The Dwarfs too were very pleased with what they could see. "It is Narnia, and it isn't," replied Griffle. "It looks familiar, yes, but it's also bigger and brighter. … Grander! – that's the word." He turned back to look at the unloved hut they had just left, and it was gone, or rather only the door was now visible, standing with no visible means of support.

Father Brown was wide eyed, his voice subdued, "A supernatural Stable indeed." He made the sign of the cross, an automatic reaction. "Dare I open the door again?" He touched the door and it did not move; he grasped the door knob and pulled; the door opened silently on darkness; he peered in, but could see nothing and closed the door again. "Curious," was all he could think to say.

"I think we may stick around here for a while," said Griffle. "When we are ready we shall head for the mountains, and see what we shall see. What about you? This is not your world but you may want to stay, you are welcome to join us."

"Thank you, but I think the job I was sent to do is done. I expect I will be sent back home somehow …"

"I have an idea about that, but first let me shake your hand."

All eleven of the Dwarfs lined up to shake hands with the Man who had befriended them and brought them to their senses.

"Now," said Griffle, "if you are bent on leaving us …"

"I think I must."

"Then go round to the other side of the door and open it from there."

Father Brown half expected to bump into an invisible hut, but he encountered no obstacle, and there was the inside face of the door he had gone through only a few minutes before. He did not know what to expect, but opened the door and saw a room. It was a familiar room, the room in the presbytery holding the new wardrobe; he was standing, it seemed, in that wardrobe. He stepped into the room and turned to look back inside. He expected to see either Narnia or the inside of the wardrobe with his robes hanging there. What he did see was the inside of the Stable, dim and empty. He closed the wardrobe door, counted to three and re-opened it; now it was as it should be, with hanging vestments.

A few minutes later he was sitting in an armchair with a glass of brandy, mulling over his adventure. After his experience with the Dwarfs, Miss Gresham and her ghosts, whether real or imaginary, no longer seemed intimidating. What did bother him was how he could explain to Mrs McCarthy that he had somehow lost her torch without even leaving the building.


End file.
